


where they belong

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, Fuck you spn, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love, because that's how much time I invested in you, we're fixing this shit ourselves!!!!, you better finance my therapy for the next nine years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Dean doesn't let go of the people he loves that easily. Especially when they were right in the middle of a conversation.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 181
Collections: Dean Winchester Deserved Better





	where they belong

**Author's Note:**

> hi! I am still so! heartbroken and pissed! and I think I will be for a long time! here is my very small and humble offering to the fix it realm. ironic that this is the first deancas fic I'm posting on ao3 when it was the first fandom I came to ao3 for. I thought I was finished with this show and then 15x18 happened...and everything thereafter. anyway, I love you all. andrew dabb SUCK MY DICK

Dean was owed this, cosmically.

Whatever the bullshit about God, about ripping up scripts, about forging a new and unscripted life — that was all fine. If Dean tripped and fell on a rusty nail tomorrow, that would suck, certainly, but fine. 

But not without doing his _damndest_ to get his angel back.

Thankfully, co-parenting the new supreme supernatural entity (deity, he supposes, and that will just never stop being weird) has some perks — namely, you can politely ask for what would once be an impossible favor, and he can grant it without breaking a sweat. Turns out deals with The Empty aren’t as ironclad as Dean Winchester’s will when it comes to the people he loves.

Because, yeah. He just didn’t have a chance to say it. This is what he reminds himself, stomach doing its absolute best to either climb up out of this throat or eject itself from his ass when he hears that familiar beat of wings behind him, the tentatively intoned, “Hello, Dean,” as if this were just a chance meeting on an ordinary day. Dean has to grip the back of a chair for a second, clenching his jaw tight, and feels a weird rush of relief and annoyance when Sam’s thundering steps bring him into the room, crossing the room with a disbelieving laugh.

“Cas! Holy shit, man, it worked. Dean!”

Dean turns, finally, sees Sam touching Cas’ shoulder, both of them _looking_ at him, watching him, and this is it, right? The moment he’s literally dreamed of since Cas was swallowed by the black, and he was just left with more silence and regret than he could physically stomach. Cas is watching him with the same wide eyes, though they’re dry now, which is interesting because Dean suddenly has to blink quite a lot and all the air seems to get sucked out of the room when Cas says his name too, apologetic, like he could possibly — as if _he_ is somehow at fault —

Dean opens his mouth to reassure him, but his words are gone, and then his legs are moving, closing the space that divides them, every inch of him trembling, alive, terrified. No, this isn’t terror, but he doesn’t know what else to call it, and he can’t duck beneath it or hide behind it a second longer, not now that Cas has dragged this thing out into the open and bravely shone a light on it, Cas, his Cas, who saved him and saved him and saved him and is watching him so anxiously right now, all of the blood drained from his face until Dean can’t see it anymore, his eyes too blurred by tears. He doesn’t stop moving until their bodies collide and he’s throwing his arms around Cas for the first time since — shit, what, since _Purgatory_ that last time? That can’t be right, but it is — and Cas is clutching him tight, and he’s shaking, too, like he’s fighting a battle with himself that he doesn’t need to anymore, fuck, it’s over, they’re here now, they’re _here._

It occurs to Dean that Cas might not know how much Dean — but of course he doesn’t, because it was a pretty one-sided conversation, wasn’t it? The thought is so tragic that all Dean can do now is laugh, and he’s very aware of how crazy he must seem, gasping and sobbing into Cas’ neck, embarrassed but uncaring about the tears being smeared into his skin. “‘M sorry,” he mumbles, speaking around the painful lump in his throat. There’s a distant sound, like a door closing, and Dean spares half a thought for Sam and the conversation they’ll have later. Unimportant right now. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs, more a rumble in his chest, pressed so tightly to Dean’s. His arms are the only thing holding Dean up right now, Dean is pretty sure. He shifts and for a despairing, heart-stopping second, Dean thinks he’s trying to pull away, but he just adjusts them so that he can slide his fingers into the back of Dean’s head instead, into his hair, soothing. Intimate. “You don’t have to—there’s nothing to apologize for.”

Dean laughs again, quietly, to himself, and then sniffs, resolute. Forces himself to find his bearings in this moment, pulling away just enough to look at Cas’ face, tracing its familiar lines and curves with his gaze, and he can tell that his own expression is way too sloppy and open to be anything other than lovesick, but who cares? Cas is looking back at him, his blue eyes wide, the color high in his cheeks, his mouth lifting into a very cautious smile, as if daring himself to hope. Then it settles again, a small line appearing between his brows.

“What I said,” Cas stammers before Dean can say anything, and then he swallows as Dean drags his gaze up from Cas’ lips, still so close, so quiet, “Before I was taken — I, I hope I didn’t —”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts shortly, heart hammering, “Did you mean it?”

Cas’ eyes dart between his, and there’s a visible flicker of fear, as if after this, after _everything_ , he still has doubt. But if he does, doesn’t that mean Dean is to blame? “Yes, but I don’t expect you to...I didn’t say any of that in the hopes of—of—my feelings being retur—”

The last thing Dean sees is Cas’ face slackening in surprise before he’s kissing the rest of the words away from his mouth, which is still and soft beneath his, at first, shock rippling through Cas’ body. Their breathing is loud, the bunker so quiet, and this feels — it’s strange, how weird and _not weird_ this is simultaneously, the final heart-quaking culmination of every subtle glance and careful touch, and so Dean pulls away only to feel the give of Cas' mouth against his again, tilting his head, deepening the kiss, wondering if he should be alarmed at the increasingly violent flutters in his chest, because wouldn’t it be just fucking grand if he went into cardiac arrest or something right now? The thought flees when Cas finally returns the kiss with a soft, joyful sound, and Dean’s head spins as his face is cradled and what was once a gentle, tentative exploration becomes scorching hot and desperate, a dizzying mutual need to transmute years of longing and frustration and confused lust into this one moment, which stretches on and on until they have to pause for air, gasping shakily against each other’s mouths.

Cas breaks the silence first, with a _giggle_ , of all fucking things, and Dean opens his mouth to ask him exactly what the hell is so funny, but all that comes out is an answering laugh. Euphoria. The word suddenly appears in his head, because that’s exactly what this is, this foreign and intoxicating feeling. And if it’s huge and overwhelming and makes him instinctively want to duck and hide, lest his smile shine too bright, a beacon to tempt fate and death and every other awful thing to come snatch this away, he ignores the impulse, choosing to live in the ungainly knot of emotion, the clutch of Cas’ hands and body heat and his lips — opening again so easily and perfectly beneath Dean's — holding him secure.

“Cas,” he breathes, something like a promise or a prayer, and Cas hums contentedly, moving his head to drag his lips against Dean’s cheek, up the slope of his jaw, slow and reverent. “I love you too.” The words slip out easy as anything, though they pull a blush to the surface of Dean’s skin, which he watches Castiel notice with a smile that puts the rising sun to shame.

And it’s good, just standing here with Cas, sharing his air, suspended in this moment, the prelude to a new beginning for them both. Dean can’t stop touching him and kissing him and he doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to pretend he wants to. Cas is here with him, where he belongs, and it’s good, it’s really fucking good.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading I am so sad lmao
> 
> find me on twitter: @kuviraava


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